Sherlock Holmes and the Beast of the Stapletons

by James Lovegrove

  I poured him one.

  “Thank you.” Holmes cast a look around the room. “No Sir Henry?”

  “Abed, on Dr Mortimer’s recommendation. Mortimer prescribed potassium bromide, and it seems to have done the trick. He told me this shortly before leaving.”

  “Yes, I saw him go, along with faithful Galen. He looked quite enervated.”

  “It was his first amputation on a woman. Apparently he found it harder to bear than if it had been a man. ‘I don’t know why, Watson,’ he said, ‘but with a female it seems more like a desecration.’”

  “And how is Mrs Barrymore?”

  “I am going to check on her shortly. She has a strong constitution, and barring unforeseen setbacks, I anticipate she will pull through.”

  “Grier, meanwhile, remains out on the moor.” Holmes plucked a sprig of privet from his hair and peered at it with curiosity before flinging it into the fire. “And will continue with the hunt for Harry until exhaustion overcomes him, assuming it ever does. The word for such behaviour is self-flagellation.”

  “Grier feels he has much to atone for,” I said.

  “Pshaw!” said Holmes. “He did nothing wrong. It was Sir Henry’s decision to go grouse-shooting, and Grier could not be in two places at once. He chose to stick with the person who seemed at greater risk. I would have done the same.”

  “You know, it is good to find you in a talkative mood once more, Holmes. All afternoon you were aloof to the point of rudeness.”

  “Was I? Yes, I suppose I was in a bit of a brown study, Watson. You must appreciate how galling it is to have a clear intimation of danger but misread evidence which, interpreted correctly, might have enabled one to forestall said danger. I should have known!” He smote his forehead with the heel of one hand. “I should have been able to predict this! Really, I am an idiot. Those serge-clad clowns at Scotland Yard could have done better.”

  “I am not sure that’s true.”

  “No, you are right. A circus clown could have done better.”

  “Now who is flagellating himself? We are none of us perfect. Why, back when I was at Netley, I had a patient who presented with double vision and a severe headache. He was young, so I dismissed it as a migraine and gave him salicylic acid powder to take away the pain. It turned out he had had a stroke, rare in someone his age but not unheard of. I still feel a chill to the vitals when I remember how badly I erred.”

  “You are kind to try to console me,” said Holmes, “but it won’t do. I am Sherlock Holmes and I hold myself to a higher standard than others. I saw this coming. I simply did not see it distinctly enough. Now I at least know where I went wrong – now, when some of the damage done is irreversible.”

  “Some. That means not all.”

  “No, not all. And come the morning, I can begin rectifying what is in my power to rectify.”

  “Tell me what you found.” I waved a hand in the direction of the garden. “Out there. You have fresh data, it is apparent.”

  “Another brandy first, if you’d be so kind.”

  When his glass had been refilled, Holmes said, “Harry was abducted by not one person but two. The footprints out by the hedge do not lie. There are two sets of them – and one of them, moreover, belongs to a woman.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Good Lord.”

  “A woman of medium height and build. The man is somewhat taller and, like her, of average weight for his size. I base these judgements, of course, on the depth of the footprints and their median distance apart. It would seem that the pair had been lying in wait behind the hedge, biding their time, until they could grab Harry. The moment arrived perhaps earlier than they wished, when they drew Galen’s attention. They had made provision against any impediment Mrs Barrymore had to offer, however, in the form of a venomous animal which they launched at her like some sort of living missile. The intention could merely have been to frighten her off with this creature. It could, by the same token, have been to injure her in the exact way they did, rendering her powerless. In either case, the animal chosen was well suited to the task.”

  “What sort of thing was it? Do you know?”

  “I do. Recall, if you will, Mrs Barrymore’s rather vague description. She said it was black, red and yellow, and long and thin. It writhed on her hand.”

  “That could be some kind of snake, I suppose. Many venomous snakes sport those three colours. It is one of nature’s warning signals.”

  “But then consider, too, the kind of locomotion the creature exhibited after it fell to the ground. Mrs Barrymore said that it ‘scuttled’. It did not scurry, as a small mammal does. It did not slither, as a snake does. Scuttled. What scuttles that is not insectile? That does not have a multiplicity of legs?”

  “Then it was a spider, perhaps.”

  “No, Watson. ‘Long and thin’, remember.”

  “A caterpillar?” I ventured this half-heartedly, but thought there was an outside chance it might be correct. There had been a lepidopteran theme to Mrs Lyons’s revenge upon Sir Henry, after all. This fresh offensive might be an extension of that, conducted by two collaborators of hers who were continuing her work.

  “I see the reasoning behind your suggestion and applaud it,” said Holmes. “However, I have never heard of a caterpillar that scuttles, nor that has a venomous bite, although there are certain of the species whose urticating bristles and spines cause a toxic reaction. No, I can think of only one creature that fits the bill. Scolopendra gigantea.”

  “Assume that I do not know what that is.”

  “The giant centipede, Watson. Found in the jungles of northern South America and capable of growing up to twelve inches long. Legs yellow, carapace red shading to black on each segment. A predator that feeds on anything from tarantulas to frogs to bats, with a bite known to kill its prey within seconds and on occasion prove lethal to humans. My knowledge of entomology is not comprehensive, and I am prepared to stand corrected, but I would wager good money on Scolopendra gigantea being the ‘weapon’ that was used to attack Mrs Barrymore.”

  “How is it that you know so much about this particular centipede?”

  “It is a necessity for anyone in my occupation – some might call it a curse – that his brain become a storehouse for all manner of unpleasantness,” said Holmes. “This includes a passing familiarity with those fauna which unscrupulous types might use to harm others. I bought that copy of Messrs Kirby and Spence’s great work of entomological reference, the one I keep at Baker Street, just so that I could acquaint myself with the more sinister and potentially deadly forms of arthropod. The book, in relation to insects and arachnids, is a treasure trove of esoterica and grotesquerie. That is why I had little trouble remembering Calyptra, the vampire moth, when Grier was first telling us about the bloodsucking lepidoptera purportedly roaming Dartmoor. While not hazardous to humans, Calyptra had still lodged in my memory by dint of its common name if nothing else.”

  “Whereas this giant centipede is a genuine danger to people.”

  “And worthy of a permanent place in my mental inventory for just that reason.”

  “But what is one doing here in the West Country? Who would possess such a beast? Unless…”

  “Unless?”

  I gave an incredulous shake of the head. “It can’t be Stapleton, can it?”

  “I told you, Stapleton is dead.”

  “Perhaps you misidentified the corpse.”

  “No, it was his.”

  “Then perhaps it was a substitute corpse placed there by Stapleton,” I said, “the body of someone who resembled him closely. He dressed it in his own clothing and had it ready as a decoy, so that he might effect a miraculous escape.”

  “Again, no. I never forget a face. The one I saw on the body in the mire was unquestionably Stapleton’s. The only way this doppelgänger theory of yours would work is if it had been his identical twin.”

  “It could have been.”

  “He killed his own twin brother and threw him in th
e mire, simply to elude capture?” said Holmes, one eyebrow aloft.

  “It is not inconceivable.”

  “It is not terribly likely either.”

  “Well then, does Stapleton have a brother, not a twin but the ordinary kind? One that we have not heard of before? Or another relative – a cousin, say – who followed in his footsteps as a naturalist?”

  “Some next of kin, you mean, who would be keen to visit retribution upon Sir Henry on Stapleton’s behalf,” Holmes said. “Now, Watson, you are getting a great deal warmer.”

  “Or it could be an assistant,” I said, “a work colleague as versed in entomology as he himself was.”

  “Again, you stray near the bullseye.”

  “I am not, though, hitting the mark.”

  “Not quite. In fact, your last arrow landed somewhat further into the target’s outer rings than the previous.”

  “This is damnably frustrating,” I said. “You obviously have a notion who the culprit might be. Why not just say?”

  “But the solution is well within your grasp. You have simply to make that last crucial step. Let me help. I told you there were two sets of footprints at the hedge, a man’s and a woman’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can also tell you that I detected the faintest traces of a feminine perfume still lingering at the scene. It adhered to several of the privet leaves and must have been transferred there through contact with the skin of the wearer.”

  “So? You have already established that one of the kidnappers was female.”

  “But the scent was familiar to me, Watson. It was the perfume known as white jessamine. Now then, let us review the data one more time. A close relative of Stapleton’s who might wish to avenge his death, who is female and who fragrances herself with white jessamine…”

  Holmes made a circling motion with his hand, as if to incite the cogs in my brain to turn. They did with their usual creaking rustiness.

  “My God!” I said, when at last my mental machinery churned out an answer. “Can it be…?”

  “I can only think,” said Holmes, “that our kidnapper, who is also the killer of Lady Audrey and Laura Lyons, is Stapleton’s widow, she who was born Beryl Garcia.”

  “And the man with her, the other kidnapper…”

  “Must be Antonio, the Stapletons’ manservant and Mrs Stapleton’s fellow Costa Rican.”

  I was thunderstruck by the revelation. “But what has turned the woman against Sir Henry and his family? When last we knew of her, she and he had developed a strong mutual attraction. I foresaw it growing into something even more, as did you, and it surely would have if she had not fled Dartmoor for parts unknown.”

  “I agree. I fully expected Mrs Stapleton to become the next Lady Baskerville. Sir Henry has explained why this did not happen.”

  “She left Dartmoor, overcome with feelings of shame. But still the two parted on good terms. It was her decision to go. She did not have grounds to think that Sir Henry had spurned her, as Mrs Lyons, in her maddened way, did.”

  “Something must have happened in the intervening five years that soured Mrs Stapleton’s feelings towards him.”

  “Soured them to the point where she has become homicidal,” I said.

  “And to the point where she will stoop to abducting his son in order to wound him,” said my friend.

  “But why did she kill Laura Lyons? And why place the moth kite in her closet?”

  “I should have thought the answer to those questions was obvious.”

  “To you, maybe. Not to me.”

  “Well, I shall resolve them to your satisfaction soon enough. In the meantime, let us call it a night. I am weary, and you, after your exertions, must be even more so. There is much to be done tomorrow.”

  “Indeed,” I said, stifling a yawn. “All in all, these are very positive developments, Holmes. We now know whom we are looking for. We can furnish police forces across the land with descriptions of Mrs Stapleton and Antonio. It can only be a matter of time before they are discovered and apprehended. There is hope!”

  “Is there, Watson?” said Holmes musingly. “Let us allow ourselves to think so. The alternative is too grim to consider.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE TRAIL OF BERYL STAPLETON

  All was haste and activity the next day. First thing, Holmes drove to the telegraph office at Coombe Tracey with Grier. There he sent a wire to Scotland Yard, for the attention of Inspector G. Lestrade. He asked the official to institute a country-wide alert. Police officers were to look out for a woman in her early thirties and an elderly man, both of Hispanic appearance and speaking accented English. It was likely that they would be in the company of a three-year-old boy, the Honourable Harry Baskerville, whom they had abducted. He wrote that the matter was of the utmost importance. The child’s life might even depend on it.

  He asked for a reply by return, and an hour later one was waiting for him. Lestrade told him that a bulletin had been sent out and that all metropolitan and rural forces were mobilising. Every available resource would be pressed into service. The kidnapping of the son of an aristocrat was a serious business, the Scotland Yarder said, and there would be no rest for anyone until the boy was safely reunited with his father.

  Back at Baskerville Hall, Holmes carefully outlined the situation to a late-rising Sir Henry. The baronet was aghast.

  “Beryl!” cried he. “But how could she? Why? I have done nothing to offend her. If anyone has cause to feel offence, it should be me. She went so suddenly, with scarcely a backward glance. A man could easily take that amiss. Five years without a word, and now she returns, nursing so much hatred towards me that she would kill my wife, nearly kill my housekeeper, and steal my son?” His hands made clutching actions, as though he was trying to squeeze sense out of thin air. “It beggars belief.”

  “I cannot explain the whys and wherefores of it, Sir Henry,” said Holmes. “That will come in due course, I am sure. For now, what we must concentrate on is the fact that Jack Stapleton’s widow is a known quantity, as is her accomplice Antonio. The police have their descriptions, and Harry’s. We must trust the sturdy constables of this land to strain every sinew and do their best. They have the manpower and the reach. They may not be the brightest sparks but their illumination can still penetrate into the dimmer corners where villainy may hide.”

  The hours passed slowly as we waited for news. Sir Henry drank, copiously, to quell his inner torment. Holmes paced. Grier was in his room, catching up on the many hours of sleep he had forgone. The search of the moor had been called off. The area had been scoured thoroughly, and now that the police were involved, it seemed sensible to leave the task to the professionals.

  As for me, I occupied myself primarily with Mrs Barrymore’s welfare. The housekeeper had come round and was sitting up in bed. Her stump had to be causing her some significant pain but, aside from the occasional wince, she was refusing to let it show. I suggested an analgesic but she refused, saying she did not like “fuddlesome” medicines. She would much rather keep a clear head, even if it meant putting up with “some soreness”.

  “Your resilience does you credit, madam.”

  “They breed us hardy in the West Country, Dr Watson,” replied she, and given the evidence before me, I was not going to gainsay the remark.

  During the afternoon, a messenger arrived from Coombe Tracey with a telegram for Holmes from Lestrade. My friend unfolded the slip of paper with a slight tremor in his hand, although whether this was born of dread or eagerness I could not tell.

  “Well?” I said. “What has Lestrade to say?”

  Holmes drew a deep breath. “It is as I feared.”

  “What?” asked Sir Henry, sitting bolt upright. “Harry. Is he…?”

  “No, Sir Henry,” said Holmes. “Forgive my poor choice of words. Harry is well – as well as can be expected. What I feared is that Beryl Stapleton might have plans to leave the country, and so it has transpired. A woman answering her
description was spotted at Portsmouth this morning, boarding a transatlantic passenger steamer.”

  At this, Sir Henry looked grim, with a hint of despair in his eyes. “And Harry was with her, I suppose.”

  “He was,” said Holmes. “Lestrade reports that she was accompanied by a small boy, who it was assumed was her son. The eyewitness, a customs officer, says that the child looked dazed and sleepy.”

  “Drugged, no doubt,” I said.

  “Very possibly, to keep him docile.”

  “And it was just a lone woman with Harry? No Antonio?”

  “Not according to this report.”

  “What do you think has become of the manservant?”

  “They must have known there was a possibility that police would be looking for a man and a woman together. Thus they have split up temporarily, in the hope of throwing the authorities off the scent, and will rendezvous later at their destination.”

  “Which is where?” asked Grier, who had emerged from his room shortly before the messenger came. “Where is the steamer bound?”

  “She is the SS Görlitz, of the Ostdeutscher Steam Navigation Company,” said Holmes. “More than that, Lestrade’s wire does not reveal, but German shipping lines that cover transatlantic routes tend to follow the eastern seaboard of the Americas, down from Nova Scotia through the islands of the Caribbean, all the way south to Tierra del Fuego.”

  “That itinerary could well take in Costa Rica,” I said.

  “Indeed, Mrs Stapleton’s native land is one possible port of call along the way. We can know for certain that that is where she is going if we inspect the passenger manifests at Portsmouth.”

  “Assuming she bought the tickets under her own name, that is,” said Grier.

  “Oh, if she used a pseudonym I am sure it is one that I shall be able to penetrate,” said Holmes. “Besides, she and Harry will be listed as mother and son, and there cannot be many pairs of passengers on that ship fulfilling that remit.”